The Seamaiden
The sea-maiden’s een glentit then, and she raxt intae her burblet locks and drew oot three leamin sea purls.
Adapted by Roisin McCrimmon from a tale of the same name in Popular Tales of the West Highlands, by Donald MycPhie from South Uist and translated into Scots by Rosie Young
Lang syne oan the Isle o Skye, there bidit an auld fisher wi the warst luck in the Hebrides. Daily-day he teuk his battert auld boat oot oan the waws , and yet ilka nicht he cam back tae his wife wi a pitifu catch.
Oan this day, the sea wis derk and bubbling and muckle grey cloods presst doon oan the laund. The fishers oan the isle heedit their stoonin hips, gowpin knees, and pricklin cregs, chuisin tae bide inside for the nicht. Bit the auld fisher kent he hid nae chice: if he didna fish, he and his wife wid gang hungert again.
And sae he set oot in his wee boat unner the writhin grey lift, but still his nets cam up emptie.
Then, jist fen he thoucht he maun ging hame defeatit, the sea unner his boat startit tae bubble and churn. Fae the depths belaw a muckle haund raxt up and split the derk surface. An airm cam efter, then shidder and chest, a gey heid drapit aboot wi heaps o snirklt hair, aa plaitit through wi currack and drou and decorit wi purl and buckie shells. She tourt ower the cooerin fisher: a sea-maiden.
Then tae his horror she spaik, wards spillin fae her mou lik the waves aginst his boat. ‘Ah deek ye’re nae catchin ony fish, wee fisher. Ah could fill yer nets, bit tell me, fit wid ye gee me, tae mak it a fair cowp?’
‘Ochone, bit Ah hae naethin tae gee ye!’ spaik back the fisher, a tremmel in his vice.
The sea-maiden thocht oan this, her een gingin first tae his leaky boat, then his suskit frock. Then spaik she, ‘Wid ye gee me yer first-born son?’
‘Ah shuirly wid, leddy,’ spaik back the fisher, ‘if son Ah had. Bit Ah hae nane, and wilna hae ony, for ma wife and Ah hae growin oor auld.’
The sea-maiden’s een glentit then, and she raxt intae her burblet locks and drew oot three leamin sea purls. ‘That’s fair mendit then, wee fisher,’ spaik she as she drappit the purls intae the auld fisher’s ootraxed haund. ‘Gee this een tae yer wife, the ither tae yer mare, and the lest tae yer dug. Suin yer wife shall hae three sons, yer mare three foals, and yer dug three whalps.’ The auld fisher thankit her hertily, for he’d ayeweys wisst for a femily. ‘Ah’ll send ye fish for yer nets as bargaint,’ she conteenaed, her een glentin haird, ’bit ye maun mind oor cowp and gee me yer first born son in echteen year.’ Then, as quick as she’d burst fae the sea, she sank eence mair intae the depths.
As commandit, the auld fisher retourt hame. His wife coud hairdly believe his story, but she wis a saft-hertit wummin, and sae she teuk the purl fae her man and swallaed it doon tae keep him content.
As the nixt day dawned, the fisher gaed oot tae sea, and for the first time in his life, ivry net he poued fae the watter was filt wi wrigglin siller fish. He lauched and greetit, and wis lauchin still fen he gaed back hame tae his wife and she ran oot tae meet him, her belly roon.
And sae, in a magically short speal, the fisherwife gaed birth tae three sons. The first, their gift fae the sea, they namet Iain. For mony a year, the fisher and his wife delitit in their new-fund riches. The auld fisher had eneuch fish tae sell oan for a braw penny, and sae he fettelt his boat and boucht for his wife aa the couthie things their hame had lang wantit. Their louns were strang and fierdy, ridin ower the Isle oan their three swift stallouns, their three fairce hoonds rinnin alangside.
Ilka nicht they gaed tae beid, bellies and herts fu. Bit the couple kent their jey wis nae tae lest. Time merched oan, and the day cam clase fen the auld fisher wid hae tae bring his son oot tae the sea tae fish for the lest time.
Oan the gloamin o his echteent birthday, Iain gaed back hame tae find his mither greetin. She couldna keep the sairy tale fae her son ony langer, and she telt him aathin. Bit Iain wisna feart. He and his brithers, sprootit fae glamour, had growen stranger than ony ither men oan the Isle. His bleck dug wis a fearsome hunter, his bleck stalloun fleeter than ony ither. Efter aa, fit loun, at echtteen, disna think himsel immortal?
‘Dinna fash, mither,’ quo he, ‘Ah’ll ging far there’s nae a drap o saut watter, and the sea-maiden will niver rax me.’
And sae, Iain bad his femily fareweel and rade awa inlaund, faur fae his faither’s bargain. The auld fisher and his wife greetit tae see him ging. They’d nae sent him tae the sea-maiden, bit they’d loss him aa the same.
The lift wis clear, and Iain wis in a fair fimmis as the sea becam nae mare than a derk line oan the horizon. The road he follaed passt through glens and toons, at lest winding through a sma wuid.
Soon eneuch, he cam tae a pertin o the road, and there afore him far the path split lay a rottin sheep carcage, surronded by a wouf, an otter, and a faucon.
Iain wisna shockit by the streenge boorach o craiturs. In thae days, road pertins were weel-kent tae be plaguit wi selcouth sichts, and fit could be mair ferlie than himsel, a loun sprootit fae a seed purl.
The beasts were eein een anither, nae willin’ tae risk takin the first bite o the carcage and be bitten by the ithers in turn. Iain, fa’d grown up wi twa brithers cam doon aff his horse and split the carcage amang the three. The beasts set upon their share, the soond o tearing flesh smackin doon the road.
The wouf turnt tae Iain, its muzzle bluidiet wi gore. ‘For this,’ it grooled, ‘if swiftness o fit or sharpnes o tuith will aid ye, caa me, and Ah will be at yer side.’ Wi that, it turnt tail and vanisht intae the trees.
The otter, crunching oan its lest bane, turnt its derk gaze tae Iain. ‘If ye find yersel sinking in watter, mind me, and Ah’ll be at yer side.’
Iain, fa’d voued ne’er tae ging near saut watter, thoucht he wisna likely tae need the otter’s help. Nivertheless, he noddit at the craitur in thanks as it depertit.
At lest, the faucon finished its meal, scartin its sherp talons aginst the road as it geed its thanks tae Iain. ‘If hairdship cams tae ye, far swiftness o wing or crook o claa wad help, mind me, and Ah’ll be at yer side.’
Wi that, it teuk aff liftwart, leavin Iain alane wi a weel-picked skelet.
Iain conteenaed his traivel for mony days and nichts. Alane wi jist his stalloun and dug, he langed for his femily. His missed ginging tae beid wi a bellyfu o fish and aa. Sae, fen he cam upon a busy toon, he stappit tae speir for wark.
At luck wad hae it for Iain, the Laird o the toon haed need o a herder for his kye, efter the lest een had vaneeshed by the loch. Iain wis thankfu for the wark, and for the chaunce tae sleep in a beid, warm and fu, efter mony nechts o traivel.
Efter he slept, Iain visited the local smith, asking him tae mak an airn staff. The first staff the smith made bent in Iain’s grip, the seicont shattert fen he swung it, but the third and hivviest of aa did weel eneuch.
On the morn, Iain set aff tae find pasture for his herd. He had misst the sicht o watter, and sae he teuk his herd doon tae the banks o the loch tae graze. They wirna lang there, fen a bellochin craitor burst fae the loch. It wis a muckle beast, tourin ower the kye oan its hint legs. Seiven ill-faurt heid tappit its great shidders, the smell o rot seeping fae ivry gapit mou. Seiven airms, endin in webbit claas raxed for Iain’s kye. In a gliff it caucht sax o the kye bi the tails.
‘Stap!’ yellt Iain, wampishin his staff, bit the geeant didna stap. It laucht, raxing for Iain wi its lest free haund. Iain leapt forrit and struck it wi a baaf sae michty it drappt three o the coos. Bit fower haund wis oor much even for Iain, and he backit awa as twa o them wranched his staff fae his grip.
‘Wouf! Ah caa ye!’ He cried.
The wouf flew past him in a grey streak and sank its teeth intae een o the Geeant’s seiven cregs. Bruilin, the craitur drappit the lest o the kye and thegither Iain and the wouf baffet it back intae the loch.
‘I yield tae ye,’ cried the craiter, cooerin by the watter.
‘Fit will ye gie me in swap for yer life?’ Asked Iain.
‘Ah hae a white filly fa can flee through the skies, and a white goun, tak them.’ spaik back the geeant.
‘Ah will,’ spaik Iain, and wi that he teuk aff the geeant’s heids.
Tho it micht nae ha been honourable, Iain thoucht that at echteen, he had time aplenty left for honour.
Thinkin the danger had passit, Iain gaed back tae the loch the nixt day. Hooanever, an echt-heidit geeant rased fae the watter and seized echt coos bi their tails.
Shootin in rage, Iain set tae the craitur. This time, he caaed the wouf tae him strechtwey. The fecht wis bruital and veecious, bit Iain wis eence agaen the victor. ‘Yer freend geed me a white filly and goun for its life,’ spaik he tae the geeant, ‘fit wad ye gee me?’
‘Ah’ll gee ye ma reid filly and reid goun,’ cried the greetin geeant, ‘if ye anely spare ma life!’
Iain leuket at the wouf, limpin and maiselt wi bluid, and thocht there wis still time aplenty for honour, and sae he slew the geeant.
The nixt day, Iain gaed back tae the loch a third time, and for a third time as the sun wan at the croun o the lift, a muckle geeant — the muckle maist o them aa — kythed fae the loch. Echteen ill reid een glaumed at Iain fae nine ougly heids. Nine haunds grespit nine kye, and eence mair Iain caad for the wouf.
This fecht wis the langest and bluidiest o aa. Baith Iain and the wouf were gey jaupit, bit the geeant wis fu o anger at the deith o its kin. Bit at lang lest, fen the sundoun wis upon them, Iain defeatit the beast.
‘Ah hae a white filly, a reid filly, and twa fine gouns fae yer kin,’ spaik he, pechin, haudin the airn staff ower his heid. ‘Fit wad ye gee me for yer life?’
Lispin thro shattert teeth, the geeant said, ‘ye sall hae ma green filly and goun, if—‘
Bit afore it coud feenish its sentence, Iain broucht the staff doon on its heids.
On the fowert day grazing the kye by the loch, the hoors passit wioot tribble, until at sundoun grey cloods descendit and a bleck ice spred ower the watter. The kye turnt and ran, bit Iain anely sighed, thinking it time tae face a ten heidit geeant.
Bit, in its steed, there was a huncht body glidit ower the loch ice: an auld wifie, claithed in coorse grey. Her hair flew oot in siller curls, and her paulie grey een shane wi sorrae. Her crackit vice echad ower the loch as she spaik: ‘Ye hae killt ma man and ma sons, noo Ah will eat yer hert!’
Iain turnt and ran back tae the trees, kennin weil that the power o this carlin was beyont even he. He fund a tall tree and clam has hie as he could.
‘Cam doon so Ah mey eat ye!’ She cried.
‘Naw, no me!’ skellocht Iain.
‘Ye hae killt ma femily, and I maun eat yer hert as peyment!’
Seein nae wey tae escape, and kennin he couldna haud oan tae the tree foriver, Iain said ‘Open yer mou then, and Ah’ll lowp in and dee bravely!’
The auld wifie streetchit her mou wide, lowsin chill winds that withert the trees. Then, Iain thrist his staff o airn doon her thrapple we aa his micht, killing her wi een strick.
Fae her corp he teuk a siller kaim, and kent he had won aa the treisurs o the loch.
Efter mony weeks o hirdin, Iain gaed back tae the laird’s hoose. Insteed o the scurry-whirrie o a wirkin castle Iain wis met by shuttert windaes and derkent doors. Fowk passit by in groups or twasomes, an ee aye oan the lift. Grim hummerin fillt ivry neuk.
‘Fit has happent?’ spiert Ian tae the Laird.
‘A draigon has cam fae the sea,’ spaik back the laird, heid hingin law. ‘Ilka year, the craitur cams and taks een o ma fowk for its supper, and this year, the lot has fawin on ma dochter.’
Iain mindit the laird’s dochter as a kind and bonnie wumman, and so he said, ‘Ah will fecht the draigon.’
Aa in the haa kent o his fecht wi the geeant, and sae they lookit oan him wi hope.
‘Nae, Iain,’ spaik the laird, ‘Ah cannot spare ye, for shid ma kye be stowen or slain while ye’re awa, my fowk will shuirly dee.’
Bit Iain thocht tae himsel that the time had cam for honour.
Sae it wis that the lairds dochter went bravely oot alane and riddied hersel for the comin o the draigon. Efter a speal, the soond o hooves oan stane caucht her lugs, and she turnt tae face a young man dresst in a fine white goun, sitten upon a braw white filly. Niver afore had she seen sic a bonnie man.
“Fa are ye?” she spiert.
“Ma leddy, Ah hae cam tae rescue ye. Please, lat me rest a speal, and wauken me fen the draigon comes.”
Suin the man had fawn asleep, his heid liggin aginst the laird’s dauchter’s leg.
His sleep wis deep, his bonnie brou restfu, until the nickerin o the white filly steert him. The beast peened its lugs back as a derk shaidie fell upon the creg.
The draigon rummisht doon oan the brae. Its emerant scales glistered like wat stanes, and three cregs kythed fae its muckle body. Thick white smeuk curlt aroon three sets o jaggit teeth. Its weengs spreid braider than a hoose. The laird’s dochter tremmlet. Her rescuer stuid hie.
Fen the twa smat ane anither, the soond o cleuk stricking airn rang oot ower the braes.
“Ye’re strang,” skirlt the draigon, sparks fleein fae atween its teeth. “Bit ye’re nae strang eneuch.”
The draigon lowpit at the man, mou abreed. The man lowpit sidelins, strickin the draigon’s scales wi a michty bleetch. Wi a flack o its pouerfu wings, the beast teuk tae the lift, plummin doon tae swipe at the man wi its deidly talons.
“Faucon, Ah caa ye!” cried the man atween stricks.
Fae oan hie, a faucon flew towards the draigon’s een. Mang the distraction, the young man cleeked his cheence and lowpit oantae the draigon’s back wi his airn staff. He seized een o the draigon’s cregs, and strick true, the heid fawin tae the grund.
“Ye hae beaten een o me” gurred the draigon, “bit Ah swear Ah’ll gie ye a haird fecht the morn.”
Wi that, it flang the man fae its back and teuk aff intae the heivens.
“Ah’ll cam back gin the morn, ma leddy” quo the man tae the laird’s dochter.
Shuir eneuch, the nixt day the man cam back, ridin this time a reid filly and dressit in a reid goun.
“Please, sir” spaik the laird’s dochter, “Ah maun spier ye yer name. Ah hae nivver heard o a warrior as strang as yersel, ceptin mebbe the cooherd, Iain.”
“He soonds like a braw fallae,” spaik back the man in reid. “Bit please, anely think o me as a body here tae help ye. Lat me rest eence mare, and Ah will face the draigon fen it cams back.”
Eence mare, the man snoozlet then steerit fen the draigon cam back. Eence mare, the fecht raged and the faucon cam fen caad. Eence mare, the man sneddit aff een o the draigon’s heids.
“Ye hae beaten me eence mare,” quo the draigon, “bit Ah hae ane mare heid left.”
As the third day dawd, the laird’s dochter had a plan o her ane. She waitet on her sauviour, fa suin cam oan a green filly that matcht his green goun.
“My faither, the laird, wad suirely rewaird ye for haein sauft me. Mebbe ye could even mairy me and be the laird of this toon yersel ae day,’ she said to the man.
“Ah wad ne’er daur dream o it, ma leddy” spaik back the man as he fawd asleep. “Am anely repeyin yer kindliness.”
As the man sleepit, the laird’s dochter mairked his foreheid wi her ineetial, in charcoal.
At lest, the draigon cam back and eence mare, the man faced aff aginst it. Their fecht lestit ootthrou the day, ending anely eence the man had brocht doon his bleck staff oan the draigon’s lest heid. Nae mare wad it plague the laund.
Iain gaed back tae the toon wi the herd ahint him and was walcomet wi great fanfare. The laird wis owerjeyt tae see his dochter sauf and caad for a great pairty tae merk her return.
Iain had nae mare fine gouns to weir bit teuk his place at the table regairdless. As he did sae, the laird stuid.
“Ma dochter hae telt me o the kempy man fa sauft her life. Ah weesh tae thank him for keepin ma greatest treisure sauf – please, shaw yersel.”
Fen Iain didna speak, the laird’s dochter did. ‘Fiather, the draigon blew its lest breith oan the brou of the man fa sauft me. Suirly that breith wad lea a merk bi which we can ken him?’
The laird caad for ivry man to shaw their faces tae him and his dochter. Een by een they approacht, bit nane luiked tae be the hero, till Iain cam forrit.
Oan seein the charcoal merk upon his brou, the laird’s dochter cried, ‘There! In draigon’s suit, ma initial! Suirly, this is ma sauviour!’
And sae it wis that Iain and the laird’s dochter were mairied.
Iain and the laird’s dochter enjeyed a year o blithe. Een nicht, as they lay thegither, the laird’s dochter said, ‘Ah canna get used tae these streenge cravins. Aa week lang Ah hae been thinkin o dulse.’
‘Weil, then Ah maun tak ye tae get some,’ spaik back her man, for his wife’s happiness wis heidmaist, even if he maun brak his vou and ging back tae the sea. ‘Ma mither maks the finest dulse, and Ah wad like her tae meet ma wife.’
Thegither, they set aff to Iain’s hame. The road wis lang and tiresome, bit suin they cam upon the wee cot that Iain caad hame. His mither, greyin and stoopit fae the years, opent the door and walcomet him hame.
Efter money lang oors o bletherin wi his faither and brithers, Iain teuk his wife to shaw her the shore oan which he’d growen. They paddlt in the shallaes, bit nae suiner had Iain’s feet titched the sea, did a muckle haund rax up fae the watter and draig him doon ablo. The sea maiden hadna forgotten the auld fisher’s baund.
The laird’s dochter ran as fest as she could back tae the cot and beggit Iain’s kinfowk to sauf him. The auld fisher and his ither sons threw aa like o thing intae the watter, wi the ettle o pleasin the sea-maiden: claes, furnitur, siller — aa sank tae the bottom, wi nae sign o Iain.
Sair made, the laird’s dochter went tae the spaewife, fa telt her o the sea-maiden’s luve o muisic.
‘If there’s onythin that can tice her fae her hame, it is that.’ spaik she.
That evenin, the laird’s dochter sat oan the shore and teuk up her hairp. She sang tae the rummishin waws a sang that minded her o her man. Suin, the watter begoud tae bile and twist and up hove the sea-maiden.
‘Play oan, wee wifie,’ quo she.
‘Nae until Ah see ma man,’ spaik back the laird’s dochter.
Sae, the sea-maiden opened her mou, kythin Iain’s sleepin heid.
Oan the laird’s dochter sang, and nearer the sea-maiden cam.
‘Keep playing, wee wifie.’
‘Nae afore Ah see ma man hale.’
Sae, the sea-maiden poud Iain fae her thrapple up tae his waist. He sterted tae steer.
Oan the laird’s dochter sang, and iver nearer the sea-maiden cam.
‘Play mare, wee wifie.‘
“Nae afore Ah see ma man healthy.”
Sae, the sea-maiden placit Iain oan her paum far his wife could see. But Iain wasna asleep onymare.
“Faucon, Ah caa ye!” he cried, and a faucon douket doon fae abuin and cerried him fae the sea-maiden’s gresp to the shore.
The sea-maiden, fuirious, and nae willint tae lea wioot her kyoab, clinkt up the laird’s dochter fae the shore and draigit her unner the waws in Iain’s plece.
Iain hadna fochten a mony-heidit geeant and a mony-heidit draigon anely tae loss his wife tae the sea-maiden, and sae, he gaed strecht to the spaewife tea lear hoo he micht perish the sea-maiden eence and for aa.
“The anely wey tae perish the sea-maiden is to perish her saul.” The spaewife telt him. “In a glen there is a tarbh nimh, a hurtsome bull. And in the bull there is a ram. And in the ram there is a guisse, and in the guisse an egg, and there inwith the egg lies the saul o the sea-maiden.”
Iain traivelt at ance tae the glen o which the spaewife had spaikit, and there, he caad for the wouf, the otter, and the faucon and besocht them for their help.
As the sun leant wastwart, they gaed intae the glen and follit the tracks o the tarbh nimh. It stuid upon a rig, but as Iain chairged, it sprang awa wi eldritch speed.
Iain geed chase, reengin ower rocky slope and deep bog. At lest, fen the chase leukit tae be in vain, he whistlt for the bleck dug. The leal dug cleekit the tarbh nimh, but alane wisna strang eneuch tae hud it. Iain whistlt agin. The wouf jined the fecht, and the beast was cowpit agrouf. Iain brocht doon his staff and strack it deid.
Nae suiner had the tarbh nimh fawen than its corp clift apairt. Fae wi in, sprang a muckle white ram wi gowden horns. As swift as the muntain wind, it fled fae the fawen bull, lowpen ower yawnin cleuchs.
Iain geed chase oan his bleck stalloun, but nae fest eneuch. Wi a whistle, the faucon wis at his side. It clamt hieer, and hieer, then swoopt and strack the ram richt atween the een. As the ram stummlt, it burst apairt, and a grey guise flew fae wi in. The guise dairtit intae a nearby river.
Wi een lest whistle, Iain caad oot tae the otter, fa slippit aneath the watter and cam back wi the grey guise in its teeth. Iain slew the guise, and fae its mou fell an egg, which he champit aneath his buit, and a glistering purl burst fae the crackit shell.
Wi the purl in haund, Iain gaed back tae the shore, far the sea-maiden waitit.
‘Dinna destroy ma saul!’ she cried. ‘Spier fit ye weesh and it sall be yours.’
‘Gee me back ma wife!’ spaik back Iain.
‘Then she is yours.’
The laird’s dochter rose up mang the waws, hale and unhairmed, and wis flang upon the strand. As the sea-maiden raxed oot a haund tae tak her saul, Iain cast the purl tae the saund. ‘Noo is nae the time for honour,’ spaik he, and broucht his fit doon upon the purl. The sea-maiden wis nae mare.
Iain’s faither gaed back tae being the maist ill-luckit fisher in the Hebrides. Bit luck wad hae it for him, he wis noo the grandfaither o a lairdling, and he nae langer had tae fish for onything bit pleisur.
He and his wife sat, watchin the gloamin ower the loch, in a growthie green hauch, as their three strang sons played ance mare oan the strand.
Long ago on the Isle of Skye, there lived an old fisherman with the worst luck in the Hebrides. Every day he took his battered old boat out on the waves, and yet each might he came back to his wife with a pitiful catch.
On this day, the sea was dark and bubbling and great grey clouds pressed down on the land. The fishers on the isle heeded their aching hips, throbbing knees, and prickling necks, choosing to stay inside for the night. But the old fisherman knew he had no choice: if he didn’t fish, he and his wife would go hungry again.
And so he set out in his wee boat under the writhing grey sky, but still his nets came up empty.
Then, just when he thought he must go home defeated, the sea under his boat started to bubble and churn. From the depths below, a great hand reached up and split the dark surface. An arm came after, then shoulder and chest, a great head draped about with heaps of tangled hair, all plaited through with seaweed and decorated with pearl and whelk shells. She towered over the covering fisherman: a sea-maiden.
Then to his horror she spoke, words spilling from her mouth like the waves against his boat. ‘I see you’re not catching any fish, wee fisherman. I could fill your nets, but tell me, what would you give me, to make it a fair bargain?’
‘Alas, but I have nothing to give you!’ replied the fisherman, a tremor in his voice.
The sea-maiden thought on this, her eyes going first to his leaky boat, then his worn jumper. Then said she, ‘Would you give me your first-born son?’
‘I surely would, lady,’ replied the fisher, ‘if son I had. But I have none, and wont have any, for my wife and I have grown too old.’
The sea-maiden’s eyes glinted then, and she reached into her tangled locks and drew out three gleaming sea pearls. ‘That’s easily mended then, wee fisherman,’ said she as she dropped the pearls into the old fisher’s outstretched hand. ‘Give this one to your wife, the other to your mare, and the last to your dog. Soon your wife shall have three sons, your mare three foals, and your dog three puppies.’ The old fisherman thanked her heartily, for he’d always washed for a family. ‘I’ll send you fish for your nets as bargained,’ she continued, her eyes glinting hard, ’But you must remember our bargain and give me your first born son in eighteen years.’ Then, as quick as she’d burst from the sea, she sank once more into the depths.
As commanded, the old fisherman returned home. His wife could hardly believe his story, but she was a soft-hearted woman, and so she took the pearl from her husband and swallowed it down to keep him content.
As the next day dawned, the fisherman went out to sea, and for the first time in his life, every net he pulled from the water was filled with wriggling silver fish. He laughed and cried, and was laughing still when he returned home to his wife and she ran out to meet him, her belly round.
And so, in a magically short spell, the fisherwife gave birth to three sons. The first, their gift from the sea, they named Iain. For many a years, the fisherman and his wife delighted in their new-found riches. The old fisherman had enough fish to sell on for a good penny, and so he mended his boat and bought for his wife all the comforts their home had long lacked. Their boys were strong and healthy, riding over the Isle on their three swift stallions, their three fierce hounds running alongside.
Each night they went to bed, bellies and herts full. But the couple knew their joy was not to last. Time marched on, and the day came close when the old fisherman would have to bring his son out to the sea to fish for the last time.
On the evening of his eighteenth birthday, Iain returned home to find his mother crying. She couldn’t keep the sorry tale from her son any longer, and she told him everything. But Iain wasn’t scared. He and his brothers, sprouted from magic, had grown stronger than any other men on the Isle. His black dog was a fearsome hunter, his black stallion fleeter than any other. After all, what boy, at eighteen, doesn’t think himself immortal?
‘Don’t worry, mother,’ said he, ‘I’ll go where there’s not a drop of salt water, and the sea-maiden will never reach me.’
And so, Iain bid his family farewell and rode away inland, far from his father’s bargain. The old fisherman and his wife cried to see him go. They’d not sent him to the sea-maiden, but they’d lost him all the same.
The sky was clear, and Iain was excited as the sea became no more than a dark line on the horizon. The road he followed passed through glens and towns, at last winding through a small wood.
Soon enough, he came to a crossroads, and there before him where the path split lay a rotting sheep carcass, surrounded by a wolf, an otter, and a falcon.
Iain wasn’t shocked by the strange group of creatures. In those days, crossroads were well-known to be plagued with strange sights, and what could be more strange than himself, a boy sprouted from a seed pearl.
The beasts were eyeing one another, not willing to risk taking the first Bute of the carcass and be bitten by the others in turn. Iain, who’d grown up with two brothers came down off his horse and split the carcass among the three. The beasts set upon their share, the sound of tearing flesh echoing down the road.
The wolf turned to Iain, its muzzle bloodied with gore. ‘For this,’ it growled, ‘if swiftness of foot or sharpness of tooth will aid you, call me, and I will be at your side.’ With that, it turned tail and vanished into the trees.
The otter, crunching on its last bane, turned its dark gaze to Iain. ‘If you find yourself sinking in water, remember me, and I’ll be at your side.’
Iain, who’d vowed never to go near salt water, thought he wasn’t likely to need the otter’s help. Nevertheless, he nodded at the creature in thanks as it departed.
At last, the falcon finished its meal, scratching its sharp talons against the road is it gave its thanks to Iain. ‘If hardship comes to you, where swiftness of wing or crook of claw would help, remember me, and I’ll be at your side.’
With that, it took to the skies, leaving Iain alone with a well-picked skeleton.
Iain continued his journey for many days and nights. Alone with just his stallion and dog, he longed for his family. His missed going to bed with a bellyful of fish as well. So, when he came upon a busy town, he stopped to ask for work.
Happily for Iain, the Laird of the town had need of a herder for his cattle, after the last one had vanished by the loch. Iain was thankful for the work, and for the chance to sleep in a bed, warm and full, after many nights of travel.
After he slept, Iain visited the local smith, asking him to make an iron staff. His travels had made it clear to him that having a heavy stick to beat off hungry beasts was in his best interests. The first staff the smith made bent in Iain’s grip, the second shattered when he swung it, but the third and heaviest of all did well enough.
In the morning, Iain set off to find pasture for his herd. He had missed the sight of water, and so he took his herd down to the banks of the loch to graze. They weren’t long there, when with a ugly roar, a creature burst from the loch. It was a huge beast, towering over the cattle on its hind legs. seven hideous heads topped its great shoulders, the smell of rot seeping from every gaping mouth. Seven arms, ending in webbed claws reached for Iain’s cattle. In a flash it caught six of the cattle by the tails.
‘Stop!’ yelled Iain, brandishing his staff, But the fuath didn’t stop. It laughed, reaching for Iain with its last free hand. Iain leapt forward and struck it with a blow so mighty it dropped three of the cows. But four hands was too much even for Iain, and he backed away as two of them wrenched his staff from his grip.
‘Wolf! I call you!’ He cried.
The wolf flew past him in a grey streak and sank its teeth into one of the Fuath’s seven necks. Screaming, the creature dropped the last of the cattle and together Iain and the wolf beat it back into the loch.
‘I surrender to you,’ cried the creature, cowering by the water.
‘What will you offer me for your life?’ Asked Iain.
‘I have a white filly who can fly through the skies, and a white gown, take them,’ replied the fuath.
‘I will,’ said Iain, and with that he took off the giant ’s heads.
Thought it might not have been honourable, Iain thought that at eighteen, he had time aplenty left for honour.
Thinking the danger had passed, Iain returned to the loch the next day. But today, an eight-headed giant rose from the water and seized eight cows by their tails.
Shouting in rage, Iain set to the creature. This time, he called the wolf to him straightaway. The fight was brutal and vicious, but Iain was once again the victor. ‘Your sibling gave me a white filly and gown for its life,’ said he to the fuath, ‘what will you give me?’
‘I’ll give you my red filly and red gown,’ cried the giant, ‘if you only spare my life!’
Iain looked at the wolf, limping and speckled with blood, and thought there was still time aplenty for honour, and so he slew the fuath.
The next day, Iain returned to the loch a third time, and for a third time as the sun reached the crown of the sky, a huge giant — the biggest of them all — emerged from the loch. Eighteen evil red eyes glared at Iain from nine ugly heads. Nine hands grasped nine cattle, and once more Iain called for the wolf.
This fight was the longest and bloodiest of all. Both Iain and the wolf were very tired, but the fuath was full of anger at the death of its kin. But at long last, when sundown was upon them, Iain defeated the giant .
‘I have a white filly, a red filly, and two fine gowns from your kin,’ said he, panting, holding the iron staff over his head. ‘What will you give me for your life?’
Lisping through shattered teeth, the fuath said, ‘you shall have my green filly and gown, if—‘
But before it could finish its sentence, Iain brought the staff down on its heads.
On the fourth day grazing the cattle by the loch, the hours passed without trouble, until at sunset grey clouds descended and a black ice spread over the water. The cattle turned and ran, but Iain only sighed, thinking it time to face a ten headed fuath.
But, in its stead, there was a hunched person gliding over the loch ice: an old woman, clothed in coarse grey. Her hair flew out in silver curls, and her pale grey eyes shone with sorrow. Her cracked voice echoed over the loch as she said: ‘You have killed my husband and my sons, bow I will eat your heart!’
Iain turned and ran back to the trees, knowing well that the power of this carlin was beyond even he. He found a tall tree and climbed has high as he could.
‘Come down so I may eat you!’ She cried.
‘No, not me!’ shouted Iain.
‘You have killed my family, and I must eat your heart as payment!’
Seeing no way to escape, and knowing he couldn’t hold on to the tree forever, Iain said ‘Open your mouth then, and I’ll jump in and die bravely!’
The old woman stretched her mouth wide, loosing chill winds that withered the trees. Then, Iain thrust his staff of iron down her throat with all his might, killing her with one blow.
From her body he took a silver comb, and knew he had won all the treasures of the loch.
After many weeks of herding, Iain returned to the laird’s house. Instead of the bustle of a working castle Iain was met by shuttered windows and darkened doors. People passed by in groups or pairs, one eye always on the sky. Grim muttering filled every book.
‘What has happened?’ Asked Ian to the Laird.
‘A dragon has come from the sea,’ replied the laird, head hanging low. ‘Each year, the creature comes and takes one of my people for its supper, and this year, the lot has fallen on my daughter.’
Iain remembered the laird’s daughter as a kind and pretty woman, and so he said, ‘I will fight the dragon.’
All in hall knew of his fight with the fuath, and so they looked on him with hope.
‘No, Iain,’ said the laird, ‘I cannot spare you, for should my cattle be stolen or slain while you’re away, my people will surely die.’
But Iain thought to himself that the time had come for honour.
So it was that the lairds daughter went bravely out alone and braced herself for the arrival of the dragon. After some time, the sound of hooves on stone caught her ear, and she turned to face a young man dressed in a fine white gown, sat upon a fine white filly. Never before had she seen such a handsome man.
“Who are you?” she asked
“My lady, I have come to rescue you. Please, let me rest a while, and wake me when the dragon arrives
Soon the man had fallen asleep, his head resting lightly against the lord’s daughter’s leg.
His sleep was deep, his bonnie brow restful, until the nickering of the white filly stirred him. The animal pinned its ears back as a dark shadow fell upon the crag.
The dragon crashed down on the hill. Its emerald scales glistened like wet stones, and three necks emerged from its hulking body. Thick white smoke curled around three sets jagged teeth. Its wings spread wider than a house. The lord’s daughter trembled. Her rescuer stood tall.
When the pair clashed, the sound of claw striking iron rang out across the hills.
“You are strong” shrieked the dragon, sparks flying from between its teeth. “But you are not strong enough.”
The dragon leapt at the man, maw open wide. The man leapt aside, striking the dragon’s scales with a massive blow. With a flap of its powerful wings, the beast took to the skies, diving down to swipe at the man wildly with deadly talons, the size of his arm.
“Falcon, I call you!” cried the man between blows.
From on high, a falcon flew towards the dragon’s eyes. Amidst its distraction, the young man seized his chance and vaulted onto the dragon’s back with his iron staff. He seized one of the dragon’s necks, and struck true, the head falling to the ground.
“You have bested one of me” snarled the dragon, “but I can promise you a hard fight tomorrow.”
With that, it flung the man from his back and took off into the sky.
“I will return again tomorrow, my lady” the man said to the lord’s daughter.
Sure enough, the next day the man returned, seated this time on a red filly and dressed in a red gown.
“Please, sir” said the lord’s daughter, “I must ask you your name. I have never heard of a warrior as strong as yourself, except perhaps the herder, Iain.”
“He sounds like a fine fellow,” replied the man in red. “But please, only think of me as someone here to help you. Let me rest once more, and I will face the dragon when it returns.”
Once more, the man dozed off and stirred when the dragon returned. Once more, the battle raged and the falcon came when called. Once more, the man lopped off one of the dragon’s heads.
“You have bested me once more,” said the dragon, “but I have one more head remaining.”
As the third day dawned, the lord’s daughter had a plan of her own. She awaited the arrival of her saviour, who soon arrived on a green filly that matched his green gown.
“My father, the lord, will surely reward you for having saved me. Perhaps you could even become my husband and the lord of this town yourself one day,’ she said to the man.
“I would never dare to dream of it, my lady” replied the man as he dozed off. “I am only trying to repay your kindness.”
As the man slept, the lord’s daughter marked his forehead with her initial, in charcoal.
At last, the dragon returned. Once more, the man faced off against the beast. Their battle lasted throughout the day, ending only once the man had brought down his black staff on the dragon’s final head. No more would it plague the land.
Iain returned to the town with the herd in tow and was received with great fanfare. The lord was overjoyed to see his daughter safe and called for a great celebration to mark her return.
Iain had no more fine gowns to wear but took his place at the table regardless. As he did so, the lord stood.
“My daughter has told me of the brave man who saved her life. I wish to thank him for keeping my greatest treasure safe – please, show yourself.”
When Iain did not speak, the lord’s daughter did. ‘Father, the dragon blew its last breath on the face of the man who saved me. Surely that breath would leave a mark with which we can know him?’
The lord called for every man to present their faces to he and his daughter. One by one they approached, but none looked to be the hero, until Iain came forth.
On seeing the charcoal mark upon his head, the lord’s daughter cried, ‘There! In dragon’s soot, my initial! Surely, this is my saviour!’
And so it was that Iain and the lord’s daughter were married.
Iain and the Lord’s daughter enjoyed a year of happiness. One night, as they lay together, the lord’s daughter said, ‘I shall never be used to these strange cravings. All week long I have been thinking of dulse.’
‘Well, then I shall take you to get some,’ replied her husband, for his wife’s happiness was more important than his vow never to return to sea. ‘My mother makes the best dulse, and I should like her to meet my wife.’
Together, they set off to Iain’s home. The road was long and wearisome, but soon they came upon the small cottage that Iain called home. His mother, greyed and stooped from the passage of time, opened the door and welcomed him home.
After many long hours of reunion with his father and brothers, Iain took his wife to show her the shoreline on which he grew up. They paddled in the shallows, but no sooner had Iain’s feet touched the seafoam, did a giant hand rise from the water and drag him down below. The sea maiden had not forgotten the old fisherman’s promise.
The lord’s daughter ran as fast as she could back to the cottage and begged Iain’s parents to save him. The old fisherman and his remaining sons threw all manner of things into the water in a bid to appease the sea-maiden: clothes, furniture, money — all sank to the bottom, with no sign of Iain.
Desperate, the lord’s daughter went to the soothsayer, who told her of the sea-maiden’s fondness for music.
‘If there is anything that can lure her from her home, it is that’ said she.
That evening, the lord’s daughter sat on the shoreline and took up her harp. She sang to the crashing waves a song that reminded her of her husband. Soon, the water began to boil and twist and up rose the figure of the sea-maiden.
‘Play on, little wife,’ she said.
‘Not until I see my man,’ replied the lord’s daughter.
So, the sea-maiden opened her mouth, revealing Iain’s sleeping head.
On the lord’s daughter sang, and closer the sea-maiden came.
‘Keep playing, little wife.’
‘Not until I see my man whole.’
So, the sea-maiden pulled Iain from her throat up to his waist. He started to stir.
On the lord’s daughter sang, and ever closer the sea-maiden came.
‘Play more, little wife.‘
“Not until I see my man healthy.”
So, the sea-maiden placed Iain on her palm where his wife could see. But Iain was no longer asleep.
“Falcon, I call you!” he cried, and a falcon dove down from above and carried him from the sea-maiden’s grasp to the shoreline.
The sea-maiden, furious, and unwilling to leave without her reward, snatched the lord’s daughter from the shore and dragged her under the waves in Iain’s place.
Iain had not faced many-headed fuath and a many-headed dragon only to lose his wife to the sea-maiden, and so, he went straight to the soothsayer to learn how he might destroy the sea-maiden once and for all.
“The only way to defeat the sea-maiden is to destroy her soul.” The soothsayer told him. “In a glen there is a tarbh nimh, a hurtful bull. And in the bull there is a ram. And in the ram there is a goose, and in the goose an egg, and there within the egg lies the soul of the sea-maiden.”
Iain travelled at once to the glen of which the soothsayer spoke, and there, he called for the wolf, the otter, and the falcon and begged them for their help.
As the sun leaned westward, they entered the glen and followed the tracks of the tarbh nimh. It stood upon a ridge, but as Iain charged, it sprang away with impossible speed.
Iain gave chase, traversing rocky slope and deep bog. At last, when the chase looked to be in vain, he whistled for the black dog. The loyal dog seized the tarbh nimh, but alone was not strong enough to hold it. Iain whistled again, and the wolf joined the fray, and the beast was made prone. Iain brought down his staff and struck it dead.
No sooner had the tarbh nimh fallen than its body split apart. From within it sprang a great white ram with golden horns. As swift as the mountain wind, it fled from the fallen bull, leaping over yawning chasms.
Iain gave chase upon his black stallion, but not fast enough. With a whistle, the falcon was at his side. It climbed higher, and higher, then swooped and struck the ram square between the eyes. As the ram stumbled, it burst apart, and a grey goose flew from within. The goose darted into a nearby river.
With one last whistle, Iain called out to the otter, who slipped beneath the water and returned with the grey goose in its teeth. Iain slew the goose, and from the goose’s mouth fell an egg, which he crushed beneath his boot, and a glistening pearl burst from the cracked shell.
With the pearl in hand, Iain returned to the shore, where the sea-maiden awaited.
‘Do not destroy my soul!’ she cried. ‘Ask what you wish and it shall be yours.’
‘Give me back my wife!’ replied Iain.
‘Then she is yours.’
The lord’s daughter rose up among the waves, whole and unharmed, and was flung upon the beach. As the sea-maiden reached out a hand to retrieve her soul, Iain cast the pearl to the shingle. ‘Now is not the time for honour,’ said he, and brought his foot upon the pear, and the sea-maiden was no more.
Iain’s father returned to being the unluckiest fisherman in the Hebrides. Luckily for him, he was now the grandfather of a lordling, and he no longer had to fish for anything but pleasure.
He and his wife sat, watching the twilight over the loch, in a lush green meadow, as their three strong sons played once more on the shoreline.